Share Offices, Not Feelings
by Duckie Nicks
Summary: Five ways Cuddy tries to negotiate with House. Huddy romance, spoilers for Last Resort and Let them eat Cake. CONTAINS SMUT.


Author's Notes: This fic contains some spoilers for "Last Resort" and "Let them eat Cake." However, I have not seen either episode, so there might be some things not compliant with those episodes. If potentially being spoiled or smut isn't your thing, please turn back now.

_Disclaimer: Not mine. _

**Share Offices, Not Feelings  
**_By Duckie Nicks_

_1. Give him what he wants, even if he won't always ask for it._

It's late, way beyond the hour where a boss visiting her employee at his home _isn't _considered suspicious. The streets of Princeton bizarrely silent and yet still somehow feeling alive, not even a siren blares in the background. Everyone else who _hasn't_ had to deal with their workplace being held hostage fast asleep, it's _too_ late for people to be out without a purpose, she knows. The moon snuggly secure in a blanket of indigo and stars, their shine dulled by atmosphere and pollution, the darkness affords rats, dealers, and prostitutes the privacy they want. And, standing in the dimly lit hallway of House's apartment building, Cuddy realizes, at this moment, she's being all three of those things.

The syringe of morphine nestled in a corner of her purse, it's all the proof anyone would need:

She's gone too far.

She's gotten too close.

The drug is _not_, surprisingly, his idea. Using her left hand, Cuddy pats the top ledge of his apartment's front door. Her fingers look for a key to get inside, proof that House has no idea she's coming to see him. She doesn't bother to knock; if he _is_ still awake, he won't answer – she's learned that much from years of friendship. So too has she learned that calling will be futile, because the phone, no doubt, has been taken off the hook.

His modus operandi is to retreat and deny; hers fluctuates, depending on the situation. But today, her decision is, apparently, to insinuate herself further into his life by playing drug mule and seeing him when she doesn't need to.

Pushing the front door open, Cuddy is tempted to blame Wilson for this development. She's also tempted to blame House himself for it, for making her start to believe that, without her, he would fall apart, implode, _destruct_; whatever the term, the proof is beginning to show, color her every decision, seep into her world view just as easily as the permanent marker ruined her office walls' paint job.

The living room is dark, only slightly illuminated by a stray kitchen light left on. As she shuts the front door behind her, her body slyly sliding itself into the apartment, Cuddy thinks she should hate him for… all of it. For being too stupid to answer his office mail, too stubborn to cooperate with the gun-wielding psychopath, for making his own pain everyone else's, and for potentially taking _her_ down with him.

Part of her _really_ wants to blame him, despise him.

But Cuddy is more than a little aware of the fact that she doesn't. Her temporary anger is indeed just that. And she understands her own body well enough to know that her frustration is one born out of exhaustion and nerves.

Glancing at the open bottle of Maker's Mark on the coffee table, she sighs and takes a step closer to it, picks it up, and assesses it carefully. Her bleary eyes trying to decide how many drinks he had, she settles on two, maybe three if they were small (and she seriously doubts they were).

Placing the bottle back down with a slight clink on the coffee table, she sighs again. This is a slight hitch in her plan, she realizes, to coax House's cooperation out with drugs.

Which isn't even a very _good_ plan – she can admit that much.

One hatched when the clock above the nurse's station rounded near one a.m., it was too late for a plan filled with many, if any, contingencies. Frankly, she was proud (and still sort of is) that, after the day she'd had, she was able to come up with any ideas at all. A clinic patient shot in her office, others, along with her _staff_, held hostage, hours spent negotiating with S.W.A.T. and patients' families, a sudden board meeting looming over her head, Cuddy was just pleased to still have rational thought processes.

And now definitely too tired to think of something else, she decides to keep going. Her legs seemingly consisting of jelly, she shakily makes her way back towards House's bedroom on high heels that desperately need to come off.

Slipping past the slightly ajar door, Cuddy tries to be quiet, as she nears the bed. Carefully maneuvering her way through the room, she works hard to avoid the clothes on the floor, the books and other knick-knacks occasionally strewn about. Her squinting eyes focused on that task, she doesn't even take in House's appearance until she's right by his side.

Sprawled out on his back, an arm tucked behind his head, so his cheek can rest on a bicep, he definitely doesn't seem to be effected by what has happened _at all_.

Not that he ever is, she laments, a soft snore punctuating the thought. No matter what horror comes his way, House… never _really_ changes. And she's not sure if she expected him to be at home crying or cowering in fear over being held hostage. But nonetheless, somehow, his non-reaction is a let down.

Cuddy sits down on the bed gently, careful not to wake him. One of her hands blindly reaching over to turn on the light by the nightstand, the soft click of the lamp sounds loud in the quiet room. And it's that tiny noise, miniscule under normal conditions but amplified now, that wakes him up.

His eyes opening, startled, he gazes around for a second to see where the noise came from before settling on her form. Sounding neither surprised nor all that annoyed (by her presence, anyway), he says gruffly, his voice thick with sleep, "Turn off the light."

Instead she moves her ass on the mattress, her body shifting in such a way that she sits between House's eye line and the light. Her back dimming the area in front of him, she calmly searches his bare arms for signs of a pinprick; she's not sure he's done anything, doesn't have any reason to suspect him. But she checks anyway, not wiling to offer the morphine until she's remotely sure it's safe.

"That's not _exactly_ what I asked but whatever," he quips, the slight irritation in voice completely undone by the way his head shifts a tad towards the curve of her hips. One of his large hands rubbing his eyes tiredly, House, looking not unlike a cranky child being woken up, slowly begins to become more aware of what's going on. And the fact that she's _here_, in his _apartment_, is clearly dawning on him, making him curious. "So…" he says slowly, drawing the word out for a couple seconds in a way that makes Cuddy suspicious. "Is this the part where we have the I'm-so-_glad_-you're-alive sex?"

He adds a boyish grin at the end for good measure, and it's impossible for her to kill him… even if part of her really does want to.

"Sex?" she asks nonplussed and unimpressed, her eyelids blinking at faster intervals than normal.

"I know it's been a while, Cuddy," he replies with a quickness he shouldn't have for this time of day. Which makes her wonder just how many nights he spends awake at this hour, her mind automatically picturing him sitting on his couch, alone, drinking scotch.

It makes her sad.

"But," House says, interrupting her thoughts. "_Yeah_, sex. You take _my_ naughty bits and –"

She cuts across his words annoyed, "I don't need a lesson, thank you."

"So that's a 'no' then?"

She ignores the question, ignores the way he's moved a hair closer to her – or maybe she's shifted towards him?

It doesn't matter, Cuddy automatically decides. Her mind already way past the saturation point, she's beginning to realize that triage is the only course of action. Decide what immediately in this particular moment requires her attention and ignore the rest; it's the only way she'll be able to drive back home and stumble to her bed.

Remembering that she _will_ have to go home, she decides to move the action along. She really has no intention of ending back at the hospital from falling asleep at the wheel, which is what will happen if she doesn't get this over with soon.

"How many Vicodin have you taken?" she asks clinically.

"In life or…?"

"Since the police let you go, jackass."

His right hand absentmindedly travels down to his thigh and begins to massage the affected area lightly. Frowning, House tries to remember, which in and of itself probably isn't a great sign. "Two?" And as an afterthought, he adds, "Wanna hand me another one?"

"Want morphine instead?" she asks calmly, as though she's suggesting he use paper instead of plastic.

This time, he is the one to blink quickly, stupidly, in confusion. Her question taking a second to enter his thick head, the words slowly wash over him. And when he does seem to understand what she's saying, his response is to cock his head. His forehead brushing against the curve of her hip, he looks up into her eyes. The confusion still obvious in his gaze, it's no surprise when he asks, "Is that a hypothetical question?"

She shakes her head and finally tugs at the strap of her purse, which has been biting at her shoulder. Pulling the bag into her lap, Cuddy rummages through it quickly. Her dark hair falling in front of her face, she tugs at the zipper on one of the inside pockets.

Dramatically, she pulls out the syringe.

Holding it up to the light for him to see more clearly, she tries not to notice the way his eyes light up. Tries _very_ hard, because yes, he has a pain problem, of that she has no doubt, but she is also just as convinced that he has a drug problem. And, although she apparently has no problem using both to get what she needs from him, Cuddy can't help but feel a little guilty about it.

So she tries to ignore it.

His eyes wide and bright, House asks in a childish voice, "Is it Christmas already, Mommy?"

"Not exactly," she admits grimly.

"Which means," he deduces slowly. "You want something in return?"

Her hesitation is real, even though she's come here with a purpose. Because, as much as she needs his cooperation, Cuddy isn't sure she'll _get_ it. And, granted she deals with that on a nearly daily basis, she doesn't know that she'll be able to handle it if he refuses her now.

The matter at hand so much bigger than clinic duty or any of the other little things they fight over, she _needs_ him to agree.

"The board has scheduled an emergency meeting for tomorrow at six o'clock," she finally admitted quietly.

His reaction is predicted, is one predicated by an assumption that all the board cares about is _him_. "You of all people should be aware of my tenure," he tells her, closing his eyes sleepily.

"If it were about you," she draws out, slightly irritated. "They would have informed me."

His eyes open once more, realization and understanding beginning to dawn in the depths of his bright blue irises. "They didn't?"

"Carlson told me," Cuddy explains. And for that, she's grateful. Because, even if he's the only one who would have mentioned something, it is, at least, one person whose support she can count on.

The words feeling weighty on the tip of her tongue, she admits, "They're meeting about _me._"

"You'll be fine," House dismisses, his left arm thumping on her lap. 'Give me the shot."

She shoves the heavy limb off. "_No_, I don't think I will," Cuddy tells him. Just thinking about her tenure as Dean of Medicine and the hospital's chief administrator, she can see what they will say. "I'm the one who routinely insists the diagnostics department remain a part of the hospital. _I'm_ the one who set up the free clinic –"

Gruffly, he interrupts, "You _should_ be fired for _that_." He plops the arm back on her thighs.

"A gunman has entered the hospital _twice_ now on my watch," she says grimly.

"Technically, I think that's _their_ fault, not yours," House points out in a way that doesn't as sound as kind as it really is.

Actually, in all honesty, the way he says it, the words sound as though he's correcting her for being unable to locate the pancreas in a cadaver. But beneath the gruffness, beyond the hardened exterior, he is in his own way, she realizes, being nice.

He doesn't blame her.

He doesn't blame her, and from her own admission, he has _every _right to. It's not generally the way he thinks, but _God_, it _is_ hers. Were the roles to be reversed, Cuddy isn't sure that she wouldn't blame _him_ for not protecting her. As it is, she already wants to find a way to make the entire hostage situation about him, about his bad habits.

Because, at least if there's something under her control to blame, then this entire thing could have been prevented – _can_ be prevented from happening again.

But House doesn't think that way, she guesses. And while she normally despises his view of human nature, right now, Cuddy appreciates it.

He's being nice, and he doesn't have to, and that pretty much ensures he'll get the morphine whether he agrees to help her or not.

"I'm not sure the board is going to see it that way," she tells him, the needle twirling between her thumb and index finger.

The thought too depressing to truly consider, she pushes it aside. She hasn't come this far, she tells herself, to leave defeated. She didn't spend her twenties studying and working to make it _this far_ only to be fired.

She can't give in now.

"They're going to want to talk to you," she explains, allowing him to fill in the blanks.

Which he does easily. "And you want me to… what? Pretend that I'm Wilson?"

She shakes her head. "You know they can't fire you until they get rid of me. They know it too, and while I'm sure my numbers speak for themselves, if you go in there and _insult _them…"

"You _do_ want me to be Wilson," he accuses.

"You don't have to kiss their asses," Cuddy concedes, although in the back of her mind, she thinks, if he _wants_ to do that, that's fine with her. "You don't even have to be particularly nice."

He opens his mouth to speak, but she presses a finger to his lips, effectively silencing him. "You do that, they'll all die of shock, and then we'll both be in jail for murder," she continues. "_All_ I'm asking is that you… don't blackmail anybody."

"I don't –"

"Don't mention to anyone that their spouse is cheating," she interrupts. "Don't stir the pot. Don't be _rude_."

"You do realize that means I won't be able to _talk_, right?"

Cuddy sighs. "Just… answer their questions as though… you were a normal,_ sane_, well-adjusted human being. I know that that will be a _nearly_ impossible task for you, but I have faith that you _can_ do it."

Clearly no longer interested in the conversation, House yawns and tiredly asks, "So… morphine?"

But she holds off. "Promise me," she orders.

"That I'll do it?"

She nods her head.

"Fine," he tells her, brushing her off as though the request means nothing.

"Do I need to remind you that helping me keep my job is _good_ for _you_?"

Irritably, House says, "I said I'd do it."

And that's good enough for her, Cuddy decides. Even if she wants more from him, she knows she'll never get an "I promise to play nice with others" from him. She'll have to be satisfied with reading between his lines – a step in the right direction in and of itself.

"All right," she says, feeling marginally better. Her voice hardening, she orders, "Roll over."

"Uh uh. In the arm."

"In your ass," she says, not in the mood. "Or you won't get it at all." As willing as she is to curry favor using his addictions, Cuddy is determined to maintain some control over the situation. Which is probably like trying to control the weather, she will readily admit. But even the semblance of control is better than freely giving in to his every whim – she's come to accept that much.

House, realizing she won't budge, rolls over. Purposely placing his head in her lap, probably relishing in the knowledge that he's closer to her vagina than any man has been in _years_ (she wants to cry at this fact), he jokes, "Ironic – I have the same rule with prostitutes."

In spite of herself, Cuddy smiles. The abnormal closeness feeling not all that odd, it's with effort that she forces herself to say, "I meant roll over on the other side of the bed. Not onto _me_."

"You're warmer," he murmurs into the wooly material of her skirt. "Besides, I thought you'd like a little foreplay," he adds cheekily as an afterthought.

She shakes her head, one of her hands reaching forward to push the covers off his body. "No, I –"

"So you just want to have sex then," House interrupts, sounding surprised and incredibly pleased by this development. "That's fine. I'm game."

Her fingers curling into the band of his pajama pants, she warns, "Careful, House. You keep saying things like that, I'll begin to think you actually _do_ want me."

"Yes," he says, nodding his head against her lap. The slight motion making her skirt shift and wrinkle, she dutifully tugs his pants down a little in reaction. "It's really _not_ like me to proposition you. Cause, see, I normally appreciate you for your _mind_."

Unceremoniously, Cuddy leans forward, looms over his long body, so she can get closer to the area she's about to inject. The movement putting House in an awkward position, he can't help but quip, "Trapped between your tits and your ass – I don't even _know_ where to start… Is this the less crowded version of seventy-two virgins?"

"Well, if you'd like to stay with the classic version," she tells him grimly. "I can make that happen, you know." Quickly, she uncaps the needle and jams it into his ass.

He doesn't whine or cry (despite the fact that he is practically the definition of a baby), as she depletes the syringe; the tiny shift of his jaw clenching is the only way she knows that it hurts him at all.

Carefully recapping the needle first, she's a little more than aware of the fact that House is laying here, his head on her lap, with his ass hanging out. The sight more enticing than it really should be, she's also aware of the way her body is responding.

And that terrifies her.

Because she hasn't changed her mind since she talked to Wilson. She understands all of the reasons a relationship with House wouldn't work, won't work, _hasn't_ worked. Those things haven't changed, probably will_ never_ change. He'll always infuriate her on one level and she him, and at some point, the excitement of challenging him and fucking him _will_ wear off. And then it'll just be frustrating and miserable, and if they stay in the relationship, it'll be because they don't like being alone – not because there's any real love between them.

Which she's almost desperate enough to settle for, it seems, if the heat beginning to seep into her panties is any indication of things.

Quickly, Cuddy pulls his grayish blue pajamas back into place, tugging at the cast-aside blankets and pulling them up to his shoulders.

Her diligence done in silence, she nearly jumps when House breaks the eerie quiet between them. His voice is little more than a whisper, each breathy word an exhale into her skirt. "That's _good_," he tells her gratefully.

One of her hands patting his back in uncomfortable reassurance, the gesture is as much a signal to him to get off of her as it is anything else.

Not that he recognizes – or at least acknowledges – the sign.

So she puts her message more plainly. "Okay, time to get off."

She can feel his smirk in her clothes. The response easily gliding off of his tongue, she's not even remotely surprised by his remark. "See, I knew you wanted sex."

Flustered, she says loudly, "I mean get off _of me_."

"Not on you? Or, better yet, _in_ you?" he asks, his chin digging into her thighs as he looks up to see her reaction.

"I didn't come here for that," Cuddy answers him sternly, not quite able to manage the words, "I don't want that _or_ you."

It should be a simple thing to say, should be easy, considering how big an ass he's being.

But… her own mind too tired to fight, the board meeting making her more fretful than she naturally is, she's not in the mood to tell him that. Especially since she doesn't, she's realized, have the luxury to take him for granted.

Between his own suicidal tendencies and psychotic would-be patients (or past patients), he is seemingly always in danger. Always on the verge of being lost to her forever, House is one of those people she clearly recognizes won't necessarily be around for all of her years to come.

And maybe that's another reason to push him away, she thinks, even as _her_ own tendencies cry out for keeping him closer. His ability to walk hand in hand with death and destruction on a monthly basis scares her. And getting close to him when he is so easy to lose seems like she's asking for pain.

Rolling onto his back then, House pulls her out of her thoughts; the motion catching her eye, it gives her a brief reprieve from all of the feelings this incident has stirred within her.

Sighing, she stands up, tossing the used needle into a wastebasket near the bed. Her hand moving to the lamp once more, she tells him, "Good night, House."

But instead of the grunt or half-hearted "Good night" she expects, he tells her, "You know, I really would sleep better if you were with me."

His tone inscrutable, her automatic reaction is to assume that he's kidding. "Good night, House," she repeats, walking to the door anyway.

"'Night, Cuddy," he tells her sleepily, a touch of defeat in his tired voice.

And it's not until she's closing his front door and in the safe confines of the hallway that she considers that…

He might not have been joking.

_2. Whatever you do, don't let him out of your sight._

The clothes she's wearing for her meeting with the board of directors is one she rarely dons these days. The navy skirt is longer than what she likes, looser than what she (and the male and lesbian population of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital) enjoys. Her matching suit coat is buttoned, the cream-colored button-down top underneath similarly fastened. In short, this is her outfit of contrition, as well as a real life portrait of a career woman in _complete_ control of the situation.

Which is very different – very, very different – than the image the fidgeting man sitting next to her presents. His gray, lightly pinstriped suit is clean, and that's conciliation on his part in and of itself, she realizes. But then his pink button down shirt is wrinkled, looks like it's been in his washing machine since he first stuck it in there. And he hasn't shaved or brushed his hair, Cuddy thinks with dismay.

All in all, House still appears to be the exact same unprofessional asshole the board has had to deal with over the years.

And for that alone, she spent the morning second-guessing her decision to give him the morphine.

Until he spoke.

Still appearing to be the same jerk but sounding slightly different, House tried, was _really_ trying she thought then, as he explained to the committee what had happened the previous day.

Not that his words have done any good, she is beginning to realize grimly.

The chairman's voice condemning as he speaks, he announces the board's ruling. "Dr. Cuddy, while we recognize all of your hard work to bring yesterday's hostage situation to a favorable close, we _also_ believe that such a crisis would not have occurred, had this hospital – and most specifically, Dr. House – been managed differently."

She looks down at her hands, the fingernails obsessively maintained as she was taught to do so in medical school. An odd habit, she thinks then, her mind trying _not_ to consider the likelihood that she's about to be fired; she has no reason _not_ to paint her nails, _not _to wear perfume, considering how little time she spends with patients.

Well, she supposes she'll have to do that now – spend time with her patients as a result of being fired and rehired somewhere else _or_ have her nails painted and body perfumed as a result of being sacked without reprieve.

"Although we do not believe your actions have merited your dismissal," the chairman precludes, making her sigh instinctively in relief. "It is our intent to ensure, for our patients and your fellow employees, that you keep a closer eye on Dr. House's activities."

Raising her head once more, Cuddy eyes the chairman carefully. His own dark eyes pointedly glaring at House (who is naturally returning the look), he continues, "It should not escape your attention that, had Dr. House responded to the criminal's request for medical treatment, our hospital would _not_ be in this situation."

By virtue of being next to him, she can hear House murmur under his breath, "Yes, it's always my fault when the psycho waves the gun around." And she's about to congratulate herself for bribing him (and _successfully_ earning his loyalty for once, because under normal circumstances, the comment would have been uttered as loudly as possible), but very quickly, Cuddy, turning her head back to the chairman, realizes he has heard as well.

"Our recommendation is, and has been for some time, that you terminate Dr. House's employment on the grounds that his inability to work well with others, including those he treats, negates all of the spectacular techniques and diagnoses," the chairman argues, his gaze hardening even further. "However," he laments. "We recognize that that falls under the realm of your control, and though we do not understand your decision, we ultimately will respect it."

Sounding exasperated, he continues, "Once again, _however_, the board, including myself, believe that it would behoove you to spend further time with your pet diagnostician. As you have chosen to inextricably tie yourself to this _man's_ career, we shall honor that choice as well. For the duration of your office's redecoration, we are ordering Dr. House to be accommodating to your needs by sharing _his_ office."

The order one neither were expecting, House immediately protests. "Oh, I don't think –"

"Furthermore," the chairman cuts across. "As the current damage to the hospital has been the result of Dr. House's own inability to correspond with potential patients and handle the less-than-exciting aspects of being a doctor, we are assigning you, Dr. Cuddy, to do the job."

Her eyes widen at the punishment, something she is already, even only seconds later, beginning to suspect is far worse than being fired outright.

"It is our recommendation that you _personally_ handle his incomplete charts, his unanswered correspondence, and any of the other paperwork our hospital has been penalized for in the past."

Her mouth goes dry at the prospect before her. Aside from the fact that such a task could easily take _months_ to handle, depending on how much headway Cameron made during the surprise inspection, Cuddy is _not_ looking forward to spending so much time with House.

He works better on his own, she knows this much. But more than that, she knows that _she_ works better without _him_ interfering, without knowing about every stupid machination and medically unsafe idea he has.

And that's not even beginning to take into account that she's been avoiding him since they… kissed.

Well, maybe not exactly since they kissed, but since Wilson wormed her unfortunately elaborate thoughts about dating House out of her. _That_ definitely made her more terrified than the kiss had, made her worry that, if she spent enough time with him, she really would allow that one kiss to develop into something more.

And although Cuddy has known since making that choice that avoidance wasn't going to be a life-long solution, this enforced closeness isn't going to help matters either.

Along with House, she opens her mouth to protest. "But –"

"This matter is closed," the chairman interrupts, effectively ending the conversation.

The two newly officemates, stunned, sitting in their chairs long after everyone leaves, House is the one to break their uncomfortable silence first. "You know… you wouldn't _have_ to do –"

"Yes, I do," Cuddy interrupts, realizing that the estimated week of displacement the painters and crime scene investigators told her is now seven days too long to deal with _him_, will probably be her downfall.

Curious, he asks, "You gonna give me more morphine while you –"

"Of course not," she barks in a hasty response. Her tone of voice is rougher than necessary, louder than she really wants to be. But it's important, she tells herself, that he learn the morphine will _not_ be a permanent addition in his life; she might have given it to him last night, but Cuddy is determined _not_ to let this become a habit.

"Then I'm beginning to regret _not_ getting you fired," House admits matter of factly.

"You think _I _want this?" she asks accusingly.

In that moment, she remembers _exactly_ why she's never wanted to date the man sitting next to her. She understands precisely now why her attraction has been one she is careful _not_ to act on.

He is an _asshole_.

Not incapable of understanding another person's pain but absolutely inclined to ignore it, diminish it, be a dick about it, House is the kind of man easy to say no to in bed.

And she's quickly beginning to realize that it won't be her attraction that will be her downfall in the next week. It'll be the incessant need to smack him that will make her work week impossible.

Because he will – as he already is – make this _all_ about him. He won't care that she's being put out by this decision; he won't care that her job has just become a million times more complicated. Because all he's going to care about is the fact that she'll now have a front row seat to his diagnosing practices.

Which she _is_ capable of understanding; her presence is going to make things harder for him, because she's going to be obligated to _stop_ him. And she's going to be interrupting him with questions about his charts and his interest in taking on new clients. But that sympathy absolutely won't be reciprocated.

She can already see as much.

Her voice challenging, Cuddy asks, "You think I went to medical school so that I could play your little secretary?"

"It is beneath you," he admits, eyes flashing bright blue with mischief. "I say you protest in –"

Trying to be calm, she tersely tells him, "I'm not going to challenge what the board has asked me to do. We're lucky they didn't fire the both of us," she reminds him. "So at least for the next week, what's yours is mine." She tacks on a smile to the end of the sentence, trying very hard to see humor and not the horror in this situation.

He scowls at the mental image. "Unless that also applies to your breasts, I'm not interested."

Standing up, Cuddy places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. The gesture not entirely genuine on her part, her words are as much for herself as they are for him. "It'll be fine, House. Breasts are off the table, but it'll be fine."

She's not surprised that his immediate response is "That's what _you_ think."

Nor is she surprised by the way her stomach clenches when, as she pushes the door open, House mutters just loudly enough for her to hear, "Definitely should have gotten you fired."

_3. Ignore his antics._

The mood is anything but light, despite his childish antics. Her belongings quickly overtaking their collective office, House is visibly distracted and irritated by that fact.

Not that it can be helped, Cuddy has told him over and over and _over_ again. She's here, she's reminded him since the second she stepped over the threshold, until his files are sorted and mail answered.

But he remains unconvinced of this fact, it would seem. If anything, House is under the delusion that if he annoys her enough, she'll leave.

So when she goes to the bathroom before starting on his files, she comes back to her white coat and purse in the trashcan. His body hunched over his computer, he's innocently looking at porn, as she pulls her belongings out of the wastebasket.

"Did you do this?" she asks, dropping her things on his desk, the noise loud enough to pull him out of his horny haze. She feels like a mother punishing her child, and she knows that if she weren't absolutely sure her job was on the line, she would turn and leave now.

Because as he turns to her and innocently replies, "Nope," before turning away, Cuddy is _convinced_ things will get worse.

Arms folded across her chest, Cuddy asks, "Are you lying to me?"

"Nope."

"Well, I think you are," she accuses snottily, flatly. The comment doesn't even remotely entice him to turn around and fight with her.

Instead, still seated, he scrolls through a series of images of naked women, as though looking at porn is absolutely the right thing to do in front of his boss.

Feeling incensed at his complete lack of tact and response, Cuddy asks him, "So… are you planning on working today or –"

"Nope." The one syllable word is said in such a dramatic way that it's so completely obvious that he's toying with her; he's messing with her, trying to drive her insane, and she hates him, because it is _definitely_ working.

"Do you think that if you _annoy_ me enough, I'll go away?"

Even though his face is angled away from her, she can see the mischievous grin begin to tug at the corners of his lips. "Yup."

Didactically, she explains, "You know that's not going to happen. I'm _not_ going to piss the people who sign my paychecks off just because you want to jerk off during your lunch break."

"Okay," he says, brushing her off.

"I mean it." Her voice is higher than normal, her irritation audible.

"Okay."

"_House_," she practically snarls, throwing her hands in the air.

He mimics her. "_Cuddy_."

Frowning, she contemplates how much trouble she would actually get in if she were to kill him.

Yes, she realizes almost immediately. The effects of House being hostage have definitely worn off on her. No longer concerned for his well being, she's quickly forgetting all of the reasons she ever hired him, _liked_ him in the first place.

But just as she's about to tell him that, another voice interrupts the conversation. Kutner, who's standing by the Eames chair looking on, asks curiously, "You too busy to have a minute?"

House shakes his head, slowly pulls his gaze from the porn, and stands up. "Maybe you can settle this," he tells Kutner, as House pushes the chair behind him aside.

As he closes the short distance to stand shoulder to shoulder with her, Cuddy can feel her brow furrowing in confusion. Last she checked, the board's decision doesn't fall under the realm of _Kutner's_ control. So unless…

Her stomach sinking to her knees, she's not sure what House is about to say. But she knows in her heart that it's going to be viciously inappropriate.

Holding up his cane, House proves her right. "Dr. Cuddy here wants me to use the cane on her. But me, being the responsible one – I'm worried her crabs will gnaw right through the wood."

"_House_," she snarls, turning to glare at him.

"I suppose I could put a condom on the bottom," he says with a shrug. "But –"

"If you don't stop talking _right now_," she warns. "The only place your cane will be going is –"

"I would just like to say, before this conversation sends me to therapy for the rest of my life," Kutner interrupts, audibly disturbed by where things are headed (not that she can blame him). "We have a case."

House's eyes assessing her, she can tell he's trying to decide if it's worth pressing her buttons any further. That's what he _always_ does, she thinks to herself. He's _always_ finding ways to push her, to upset her, to annoy the hell out of her. He's gotten so good at it that Cuddy almost misses the days, years ago, when he would just try to _avoid_ her.

Not that that's really an option now, she laments. Thanks to the board's decision, she's got no choice but to put up with his quips and quirks and insanely childish behavior.

Shrugging, House looks away from her then, apparently deciding that he's tormented her enough for the moment. "Symptoms?"

"Three month old baby girl. Excessive vomiting, diarrhea – admitted for dehydration."

Clearly unimpressed, House tries to slyly move a hand towards Cuddy's purse, which is still sitting on his desk. "Yeah" is his dry response to Kutner's listing of symptoms. "This was definitely worth interrupting my porn surfing for."

His fingers nearing the zipper, Cuddy quickly reaches forward and grabs the purse away from him. "_No_," she warns, once again feeling as though she's being Mommy to a two year old incapable of understanding the concept of privacy.

"The kid smells like Galumpkis," Kutner offers hopefully. A pathetically expectant look on his face, he's clearly trying to entice House, is trying to make him proud.

It's a sentiment that, in this moment, Cuddy can't really understand. Although she'll never be convinced that Kutner is a better doctor, she's absolutely already sure that he's a better human being than House. The fact that he didn't say anything about where House should shove his cane is proof enough for her of that.

And in that second, Cuddy is tempted to tell him this, is tempted to let House know that she _isn't_ impressed or turned on by childish antics best left for kindergarten. But then again, she's not exactly sure that's what he's going for anymore.

Since the board handed down its decision, he's been more antagonistic than anything else. And although she told Wilson that she was worried their sexual frustration was really just frustration, she can't help but be a little dismayed and surprised at how quickly the one is giving way to the other.

So she remains quiet and turns to House to see if he's interested. Although there is something to be said for him whittling the week away, which will clearly make things easier on _her_, there is also something to be said for distracting him from his irritation with a case.

And so, when he cocks his head in interest, she breaths an audible sigh of relief.

"Cool," House says at first, his silence immediately following suit. The wheels already turning in his head, he has, she thinks, already a million ideas, a million possibilities. At this point, the puzzle pieces are too small, too finite to give him much of an idea of what the final picture will look like. "Assemble the team," he tells Kutner with a nod of the head.

The younger doctor looking more pleased than he should at House's implicit approval, Kutner practically skips as he leaves the office.

And turning to her once more, House adds as an afterthought, "You know, cabbage rolls sound pretty good right about now." Taking several steps into her personal space, he tells her in a low voice, "Since you're going to be playing secretary these next few weeks –"

"How many files do you have?" she asks, uncomfortable and simultaneously enticed at the closeness.

"Don't interrupt, _sweetheart_," he replies snidely. "Now, be a good girl and go get Daddy some food," he tells her patronizingly.

Her mouth open to respond sarcastically, it's abruptly closed by the way his hand – which seemingly comes from nowhere – smacks the curve of her ass hard. A squeak escaping her, Cuddy is left, as he begins to walk away, with the knowledge:

House has _spanked _her.

She has been _spanked_. By that _jackass_ of a human being.

Her mind can't quite grasp her current reality, the question, _what the hell_, looming in her mind.

The door to his office swinging shut behind his limping form, she's left alone with two sets of burning cheeks.

The act so forward, even for House, _so_ over the line, Cuddy isn't exactly sure what she should do.

Chase after him and yell? No, that would only call attention to what he did – and she has no doubt that he'll be willing to share with the class, should she do that.

Kill him then? She supposes that would be, at least temporarily, the most satisfying option. But then, she understands murder comes with consequences like jail time, and the sheer amount of paperwork that would pile up in the interim is enough to quell any homicidal thoughts… for the moment, anyway.

She's definitely _not_ going to ask Wilson for help. The fewer people that know House has smacked her ass, the better – she's certain of that. And really, that only leaves her with ignoring him. Which is definitely easier said than done.

Sitting down at his desk, Cuddy begins her task of weeding through House's mail and patient files. The sheer amount of work to be done absolutely ridiculous, she recognizes that, even after her office is cleared and repaired, she'll still be doing this.

She'll be doing this for _weeks_. Easily, she figures, if she doesn't immediately triage the paperwork before her. And pushing aside a thick strand of dark hair that has fallen in front of her face, Cuddy realizes that she'd be nowhere if she hadn't already learned how to handle gigantic amounts of work.

And so she immediately starts, her method simple. The past patient files that Cameron hadn't completed for billing are ignored. Set aside, because as important as it is for the insurance companies to be billed, Cuddy has, thanks to what has happened, become more concerned about the potential patients waiting on House for a diagnosis.

Leafing through all of the desperate letters, she deftly sorts through the pleas. To the left of her go the cases she thinks are frivolous – individuals who want to see House for their cold or for their terminal cancer. As though his time were best spent wiping noses or holding hands with dying patients, she can hear him say in her head.

He definitely won't be interested in these cases, nor would any diagnostician. So she places those files to the side, the response letter stating, "Dr. House agrees with the diagnosis," to be written later.

The rest fall into two categories: the cases House might be interested in and the cases she suspect are on his – _her_ – lap because of a misdiagnosis. Placed in the same pile to her right, Cuddy plans to present all of them to him as potential puzzles he might enjoy solving. The cases she thinks might be misdiagnoses will either be immediately rejected or her suspicions will confirmed, and she likes that. Because, although she's confident in her own ability to diagnose patients, the last thing she wants him to do is come in here and see three piles – and then proceed to make fun of her for trying to play diagnostician.

So it's just easier to do it this way, she decides.

And indeed, sorting through all of the letters _is_ pretty easy. Her light blue eyes scanning a letter as her manicured fingers begin to open the next, she's quickly able to get into a rhythm. The dull work just interesting enough to help the time past, Cuddy thinks she's making headway.

… Until House comes back into the office.

"You're still here," he says, sounding incredibly disappointed, as he limps over to the desk.

Looking up, she replies, "Of course, I'm still here. You can't ignore your correspondence for however many months you have and expect the job to be done in an hour."

Her eyes trained on him, she watches him closely as he places a finger on one of the stacks of files. She's not sure what he's about to do. With him, it's just as possible that he'll throw the papers around as he will sit down and look through them seriously. And granted, Cuddy knows he's incredibly _unhappy_ about their current… "living" situation, for lack of a better term. But how he'll choose to act out is entirely up to him, entirely beyond her control.

So she sits up straight in the chair and waits.

House, being the constantly contrary man that he is, does neither. Looking up at her, he mentions seriously, almost accusingly, "You didn't get my food."

The comment is absolutely ridiculous, so much so that it takes her a minute to digest the words. Because _surely_ she's misheard him. _Surely_ he didn't actually expect her to stop what she was doing and run out to go find him cabbage rolls.

But, her own eyes looking at him further, she can't detect any hint of sarcasm or humor in his bright blue eyes. Only a serious look contorting his features can be seen from her vantage point. And Cuddy realizes quickly that he's definitely _not_ kidding.

"Of course, I didn't," she says finally. "I have a _job_ to do. I know that you think all I do is sit on my ass and fellate would-be donors, but I_ do_ actually have a job to do."

"And at the moment…" House drawls slowly, smoothly, moving around the desk till he's standing behind her. One of his large hands clamping over her paradoxically strong and fragile shoulders, he hunches over so that his lips are close to her ear. His breath hot, voice seductively low but forceful, he tells her, "Your _job_ is to serve _me_."

His boundless arrogance asserting itself in that moment, Cuddy is absolutely flabbergasted; the word's distasteful even to her own mind, but it's the only way to describe the way she's feeling. How he can make everything about him is beyond her understanding. How he can take this experience to mean that she's now some sort of _slave_ is beyond her as well.

Abruptly looking up at him, she shoots him a glare. "That's, actually, _not_ my job, House. I'm just here to clean up your mess – as I occasionally do from time to time. I'm not an indentured servant or a slave."

"No, but you _are_ my _secretary_ currently, if what you're doing is any indication," House points out, as though that explains anything. "And I've seen the movie – I know how this works."

Biting down on the inside of her mouth, Cuddy counts to three, no, five – _ten_ – in order to calm down. Her voice even, she eventually says, "House. That was a movie. _This_ is real life, and in real life, my job is _not_ to satisfy your every whim." As an afterthought, she warns, "And if you _ever_ spank me again, I'll rip your balls off and make you eat them."

Despite her serious tone and threats, however, House responds with, "We'll see," before heading back out the door.

_4. When you fail at step 3, participate in his antics. Chances of success are small, so be prepared to accept any victory that comes your way._

It's one of the few times she's ever witnessed a full-out differential diagnosis. Usually only watching House diagnose or his fellows attempt to diagnose without him, Cuddy hasn't been privy very often to the rapid-fire conversation. The white board looming in the other room, the other five doctors throw out possibly diseases and disorders.

"Acute porphyria," Taub throws out half-heartedly.

"Wouldn't account for the smell," Kutner responds immediately.

"And," Foreman adds. "Doesn't explain why her liver's shutting down."

They continue to toss possibilities back and forth. A sophisticated game of word play, it's almost intoxicating, Cuddy thinks. Because despite not taking part in the differential, she can't help but be caught up in the way everyone quickly recalls information they all learned years ago in med school. In some ways like walking textbooks, they are, at the moment, everything she's not.

Working hard to solve the case, to figure out what's wrong with the baby, they are doing everything they can, piecing together a puzzle with every bit of information they have. Where as she, on the other hand, is allowed to witness the conversation only by…

Well, being House's temporary secretary.

The term one she opposed only hours ago, she can't exactly deny it now, as she starts to write some of the letters for him to sign.

She really is his secretary, his assistant, someone who isn't a doctor. And that makes her feel… lost in a way, _less than_, because she went to medical school like everyone else.

But she's chosen a path that doesn't really require her to use that information in the same way. And so, Cuddy is left feeling jealous of that, envious that they can diagnose and do what they want essentially while she plays Mommy and cleans up the mess.

Which usually means she has to be content with diagnosing a cold or hemorrhoids in the clinic. Or she's left living her medical career vicariously through House's. Her taste for this brand of medicine usually limited to approving tests or taking the syringe out of his hand, being front and center to it now leaves Cuddy _craving_ more.

So much so that, after five minutes of listening to the younger fellows bounce ideas back and forth, she can't help but put her own forward. Her eyes still cast downward on the letter she's proofreading, she doesn't want to look at them, doesn't want to catch the look on House's face when she offers an idea he'll shoot down as stupid. "Tyrosinemia," she suggests, her voice more confident than she feels.

"Sorry," House replies snidely. "Only real doctors can play this game."

And that does make her look up at him, despite her better judgment. If only because his rejection of her suggestion is that she shouldn't be diagnosing, she's curious; he didn't say she was wrong. "I _am_ a real doctor," Cuddy says affronted.

"Not since they killed Washington with blood-letting," he retorts.

Folding her arms across her chest, she tells him, unwilling to back down, "It fits all of your patient's symptoms – including the smell."

"Anyone want to share with the rest of the class why Dr. Cuddy's bootylicious back is _wrong_?"

Almost conciliatory, Thirteen glances over to her then. Her voice almost lamentable, she explains, "They would have tested her for that at birth; it's New Jersey –"

"I know what the New Jersey regulations state, thank you," Cuddy says curtly. "But if she weren't born in this state, or a state that has mandatory testing for Type I Tyrosinemia… her symptoms would go undiagnosed and untreated until now."

The argument even better out in the open than in her head, it makes her happy when nobody – not even House – can deny what she's saying. A sick sense of pleasure flooding her as she hears him mutter, "Go test the damn kid," Cuddy can feel her mouth widen in a smile as she returns to her work.

But if she had ever remotely hoped that House would respect her more the day she got a diagnosis right…

She realizes almost immediately how wrong she is to operate under that assumption.

As she's busy grinning like a fool over one diagnosis anyone not too busy looking for medical zebras could have discovered, House limps over to the desk. His expression is unreadable – unlike hers – and truthfully, Cuddy is surprised to hear him say, "That was good."

"Thank you," she tells him, refusing to even consider that his praise, such as it is, means anything to her.

"But…" he says slowly, his cane raising before she has anytime to react. The oak wood quickly sweeping across her desk, the files mix together; papers spill out of their manila contents, and fall into the trashcan and onto the floor.

Shocked, _furious_, she looks up at him accusingly.

And he tells her, "Until you learn to predict things like that… not good enough." The last three words are said slowly, the three syllables drawn out in such a way that they have a weight they wouldn't ordinarily have.

But right now she's too angry to even remotely think about what he's saying. "You –"

"You'd better clean this up," House tells her with a smirk. "Or you'll _never _get out of my office."

She shoots him a murderous glare.

It's a look one he never sees, his head already turned as he leaves the office once more.

And by the next day, Cuddy has had enough. Paperwork aside, she's ready to _kill_ House. Try as she might, she just can't ignore it, can't ignore his antics.

Frankly, she thinks, as she sets the pile of files she wants House to look at to the side, it was probably stupid of her to _ever _think that she could ignore it.

He's always had an ability to get under her skin in ways that nobody else has. As a doctor, as a woman, she has always been affected by the way he acts and sees the world. Her mind constantly challenged, heart continually racing around him, he easily affects her, easily changes her demeanor the moment they're in the same room together.

Which is why she begins her day switching his Vicodin with laxatives… again.

Since the previous day ended with House knocking over her carefully organized piles, she became, in the interim, ready for revenge.

So she goes with what's tried and true – messing with his stash.

Getting in extra early so she can replace the hyrdrocodone with drugs that will make his bowels flow like the Mississippi, Cuddy starts her day pleased by her plan. As uncreative as it is, it'll work. And even if House doesn't change, doesn't learn his lesson, the time he spends in the bathroom will be time he _isn't_ here, harassing her.

And for a while, her plan actually seems to work. The morning passes by quickly; what with House not strolling through the doors before 10:30, she has plenty of time to get work done before he starts harassing her. And even then, too busy swallowing the Vicodin that no longer seems to work, he's distracted by his pain. Only a few quick quips and a handful of attempts to grope her, House is practically manageable.

Until the laxatives begin to kick in and he realizes _exactly_ what's going on. Disappearing for about twenty minutes, when he comes back, he has what appears to be a fresh bottle of Vicodin in his shaky hands. Beads of moisture just beginning to dot his brow, she looks at him in disgust, her nose screwing up in distaste.

"You know it's a good thing you're still here," House tells her, the words not sounding anywhere remotely sincere. "Who else would give me the free colonic I didn't ask for?"

Glancing back down at the letter she was reading, Cuddy said, "I assume you've gotten your hands on some Vicodin then?"

"Obviously," he replies irritably. Closing the distance between them, House is visibly limping more than he normally does. His gait awkward and uneven more than usual, she almost feels bad for switching the pills.

_Almost_.

Pausing in front of the desk, House explains, his fingers drumming on the handle of his cane, "Wilson gave me a new prescription, since I couldn't trust any of the bottles in my office stash."

"You poor thing," she tells him with a mock pout playing on her lips.

But as it turns out, _she's_ the poor thing in the end.

Lifting his cane up, the motion quick and smooth, House uses it to push over the mug of black tea she's had on the desk since this morning. The dark liquid immediately begins to seep through the letters she's sorted, the now cool beverage spreading all over his desk.

"House!"

But he doesn't just stop there. Because then he says, "Oh, let me help with that." Propping his cane up against the desk, he picks up some of the papers that _haven't_ been soaked and begins to use them as though they were paper towels. "It's just the cane is _so _hard to control sometimes," he tells her, spreading the mess around as much as he can.

Fuming, she snaps, "_House_. Stop it."

He looks up at her innocently. His bright blue eyes are wide, as though he has no idea why she's angry. A file dripping with tea in his hand, he asks, "What?"

Desperately Cuddy begins to pull at the stacks of paper that haven't been drenched by the tea. Standing up, she shoves the dry files onto the chair. Her goal, keeping them out of House's grasp, the last thing she wants is for him to ruin _all_ of the papers she's meticulously been going through.

"Touch anything else, and I will kill you," she barks at him, hoping to keep the mess to a minimum.

"But it was an accident, Mommy," he tells her, not at all sounding innocent. "My cane just –"

She's had enough.

At that moment, she grabs the cane. His mouth firmly clamping shut, House can't help but watch her intently as he waits for her to make a move. His body almost bracing itself for a blow, Cuddy smirks.

With a quick jab in the _opposite_ direction, she purposely knocks over the little TV that he loves to watch soap operas on when he should be working. The loud clatter echoes throughout the room. And there's no doubt in her mind that plenty of people on the floor will have heard the noise.

The television, however, she realizes, as she turns to look at it, isn't broken.

Much to her dismay.

So she hits the TV again. And again, she uses the cane to hit it as hard as she can, until it finally gives way with a loud crack.

Looking up at him then, Cuddy admits, "You're right. It's a _very_ slippery cane." She starts to add, "Maybe you should have that looked at," but he starts shouting over her, and she can scarcely hear herself think.

He's angry, yelling something along the lines of "What the hell" and "You're going to pay for that," and she returns in kind with "_You_ started it" and 'Well, if you hadn't been the asshole to dump tea all over the desk, I wouldn't have done that!"

Their voices getting louder and louder, their bodies moving closer and closer until they are in each other's face, they are in no mood to _avoid_ making a scene. House towers over her, her back ramrod straight to pull her at her full height. Droplets of cold tea drip from his fingers and splash on her dark heels.

And they are so close then that she's not entirely sure what she wants to do more – jump him or kill him. The answer should be simple, Cuddy realizes, especially when she's only projecting the latter option.

But somehow, for whatever reason, it just _isn't_ that simple. His body close, his heat and scent wafting off of him, part of her can't help but want to screw his brains out. And, given the way his eyes are looking at her, she can tell that he's feeling much the same way.

They're still yelling at one another, the accusations escaping them, as though of their own volition, as they look one another over ravenously. A different kind of word play that's more intoxicating than any differential, she can hear her threats and his snide remarks, but it doesn't register in her head. Lies and accusations flowing off their tongues like water under the bridge, it's what's not being said that matters more to them both.

A slight change of color in his eyes, a softening around his hardened lines – he's definitely interested in her. A flirty smile mixing with the sneer on her mouth, her body instinctively moving closer to his – she's letting him know the interest is mutual.

And they are, she thinks, so close to kissing one another, bodies instinctively decreasing the tiny gap between them.

Until the door to his office opens and Wilson pulls them out of their thoughts with the question, "Did you guys hear… Oh."

Both guiltily turning to look at their friend, Cuddy sees that Wilson is surveying the damage – the tea on the desk, the stacks of paper on the floor, and the television broken on the ground. "Oh," he repeats, sounding… only _slightly_ surprised that this is the scene he's walked into. "So I'm guessing the sharing offices thing is really working out for you two then?"

His hands are cautiously out in front of him, as if somehow expecting her harried, "What the hell do you want?"

The outburst is totally unnecessary; that much she knows. And it feels even worse when, she, out of the corner of her eye, catches House smirking. That he is amused by her anger makes her feel increasingly pissed off at him _and_ regretful that Wilson has happened upon them like this.

"I… heard a noise," Wilson explains. "And I just wanted to make sure –"

"House was being an ass," she tells him. "So I handled it."

"_Yeah_," House interjects. "By being an irrational –"

"Unless you want your Game Boy to go next, keep your mouth shut," she orders darkly.

"So I'm going to go ahead and guess you two haven't decided to be adults and go out on a date yet," Wilson says dryly.

Eyebrows raised, she turns her attention back to the intruder. Affronted she asks, "Excuse me?"

A smirk on his face, House offers, "Wilson thinks you're acting weird, because you not so secretly want to do me."

Although Cuddy doesn't have a mirror, she's absolutely sure that she is _visibly_ taken aback by this information. Her eyes narrowing on Wilson, he is quick to explain. Sputtering, defensively, he says, "That's – no, that's – that's _not_ what I said." Holding his hands up to stop her from yelling, Wilson continues, "I said you _both_ are acting… not like yourselves."

"Because I 'not so secretly' _want_ House?" Cuddy asks, challenging him to say those words to her face.

"Hey," he says nervously, motioning for her to slow down. "All I'm saying is… you two _kissed_. And people don't usually… do that," he tells them both clumsily. "Unless they like each other in _some_ way. And maybe," Wilson adds carefully. "Maybe if you two actually _dealt_ with what you're feeling – whatever that is – then things could go back to normal or… change, for the better."

Before either she or House has a chance to respond, Wilson says, as an afterthought, "You know, this is _much_ easier when you two are in the same room."

"That's an interesting theory," Cuddy says, her words dismissive and cool. "But unfortunately, if you don't get House out of here now and convince him to _behave_ himself, we'll never know what _might_ have been." She's being sarcastic… for the most part.

"Why's that?" Wilson asks, his eyes squinting in confusion.

"Because I'm going to kill him," she answers quickly, dryly.

"And apparently," House pipes up. "Dr. Cuddy is too good for necrophilia."

She shoots him a glare, and for about the millionth time in two days, she thinks that he is possibly the most infuriating man she's ever met.

Turning back to Wilson, Cuddy asks, "Do you see what I'm dealing with?"

But he shrugs her off. "He just… likes you."

It's almost a little odd to talk about House as though he's not in the room. But frankly, she's too annoyed to _not_ participate in it. Folding her arms across her chest, she licks her bottom lip before calmly saying, "Then you can explain to House that we're no longer in kindergarten. And if he likes me, then he can be an adult about it. I don't like having my pigtails yanked on a daily basis."

As if on cue, House swiftly – much more fluidly than a man with a limp should move anyway – heads her way. Hand in the air as though he's going to pull her hair, he has a mischievous look on his face that she's tempted to smack off.

Instead, however, Cuddy settles for backing out of his way, for holding his cane out to him, and ordering Wilson, "Take him out to lunch, go throw things off the balcony – I don't care. Just _do something_ with him."

"Okay…" Wilson says slowly, audibly confused at the display in front of him. Not that she can really fault him for that.

What has happened in the last two days is bizarre, even to her, and she's _participated_ in it. How they've gone from being close… sensitive and practically _tender _to one another in a way they never are to _this_ she doesn't know. There's no rational reason for it, no apparent explanation other than the one Wilson's offering.

Which is the most ridiculous thing she's ever heard – well, other than the time House tried to use his hay fever to prove he was allergic to clinic duty, of course.

Cuddy can admit that she and House are acting… differently. Have been, she supposes, since the night they kissed, but she's _not_ convinced that it's because they _like_ each other. Truly, of all the reasons for things to be weird between them, the one where they're being different because they want one another _has_ to be the least likely.

It makes much more sense, she thinks, that they're being weird because they know the kiss was a bad idea. Or because they know that a relationship between them would never work out. Or because there's a blue moon or it's the first sign of the apocalypse, and they're acting this way, because they have no control of their own actions.

As Wilson and House leave (a leer from the latter directly aimed at her), she thinks with a sigh that it's _not_ a good thing when she's seriously contemplating the world ending as motivation for her behavior.

But…

As preposterous as that option is, it _has _to be better than the other option, that they _like_ one another.

… Right?

_5. Never forget: sex is a useful tool; fucking him into submission is allowed from time to time._

She's going to have sex with him.

As Cuddy slips on her lab coat, she realizes how stupid it is to set a goal for herself like that; raising another million for the hospital, ensuring House fulfills his clinic duty – _those_ things are admirable accomplishments. Convincing House that they need to have sex in order to get over… whatever the hell it is that needs to be gotten over is obviously _not_.

Of course that's not to say that real work _won't_ be done, she understands. It's all part of her plan, and long after Cuddy calls House to come in on a Sunday morning (and he begrudgingly agrees under the pretense that there's a case), she's still smiling.

Her lips splitting in an extremely pleased and catty grin the moment he walks through his office doors, House almost immediately recognizes that this is a trap. Suspiciously, he says slowly, "You're looking… _pleased_. Which means you either got laid, which is _doubtful_, or…" He pretends to think for a moment before shrugging. "I don't know," he tells her. "What makes a Lisa Cuddy happy?"

The answer to his question is immediately given. Not outright stated, of course, but then it's incredibly clear that it doesn't need to be. The two security guards she enlisted this morning grab House by the biceps. Their grip obviously tight, House doesn't even really try to break away, thankfully; as well as she's planned this, the last thing she wants is for him to twist the wrong way and hurt himself.

Which doesn't seem likely, because he allows himself to be led, maybe for the first time ever. Only his words reveal his irritation; "Twice in one week. This must be a record." The guards begin to handcuff his feet to his desk chair and place rope around his back and the back of the chair.

And for a brief moment, Cuddy worries that this is a mistake. As much as she probably should have realized that this could be _traumatic_ for him, she hadn't. Perhaps that was because he _didn't _seem upset by what happened.

If anything, he has been just as obnoxious and rude these last few days as he normally is. His behavior changed but for reasons _not_ involving a gunman, it was what convinced her that this was… okay.

But maybe she was wrong?

House looks at her then and says, "I always knew you were into bondage, but I never thought you'd actually need lackeys to help you. Thought you'd like the _hands_ _on_ approach," he tells her with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Cuddy, thinking to herself that he has _no_ idea how appropriate his comments are, ignores the quip. The tight clench around her heart eases at the realization that he is _fine_. Feeling not quite so anxious, she remembers to tell the guards, "Make sure the knots are on the back of the chair. I want to leave his hands free."

The two virtual strangers nodding their heads and leaving after a moment, she takes the time to close all of the blinds around them.

"Is this the part where you torture me for answers?" House asks curiously.

"Be quiet," she orders, making sure the blinds are closed as much as possible. She really doesn't want anyone to see _this_.

Ignoring her, he says, "Cause I'll talk. I'll tell you everything you need to know." When Cuddy glances at him, House confesses mockingly, "_I_ was the one to frame Roger Rabbit."

She starts to approach the desk. "I'm beginning to rethink that whole torture part, House."

"Well, you know, if that's the case, then it was _really_ stupid to leave my hands free," he tells her. "What with the phone being right in front of me and all."

"You're not going to call the police, Wilson, or anyone else." It's not a command, but there's no room in her tone for defiance either.

His eyes challengingly glaring at her, he asks, "Wanna bet?"

Not wanting to take that bet _at all_, Cuddy quickly moves the phone out of reach. Her hand pushing the phone to the far side of the desk, even with his long arms, he won't be able to reach it.

"Well, you're no fun," he complains, as she heads into his fellow's office. Quickly closing the blinds, she begins to drag the white board, which she wrote on earlier, into his office.

The rules laid out neatly for him, it will, hopefully keep them both on track. Because, as much as she wants to have sex with him now and get it over with, part of her realizes that, after the hell he's put her through, he needs to turn it.

Pushing the white board through the office door, she is not surprised to hear House ask, "So… are we going to get to the point anytime soon or should I –"

"If you shut up, we will, yes," she tells him irritably. Setting the white board in front of the desk so he can see, she is pleased to note that he doesn't offer a sarcastic remark. So Cuddy explains, "I've been thinking about what Wilson said."

Frowning, he says, "_Great_." He gestures down to his current predicament and tells her, "Well, then I guess I shouldn't be surprised you're tying me up as a precaution. Before you start getting your little school girl crush and playing 'he loves me, he loves me not,' I should warn you: I have no interest in listening to you talk about your feelings." As an afterthought, House adds, "Now or _ever_."

"That's good," she replies with a nod. "Cause I was thinking we should just have sex instead." Her voice is practically breezy, the words flowing as though she didn't just proposition him.

But if she expects an honest reaction from House, she's not sure she's getting one. His brow scrunching in confusion, he asks, "Wilson said we should have sex? You _do_ realize he's not my pimp, right?"

Folding her arms across her chest, Cuddy _tries_ hard to calmly explain. "He said we should… _date_," she says, the word, date, sounding awkward on her tongue. Whether that's because it's been _so damn long_ since she last actually _had_ a date or because the idea of dating House is too bizarre to even picture, she doesn't know.

Either way doesn't particularly bode well for her.

"This is your idea of a date?" he asks, confused.

She scowls. "_No_, you moron." Brushing a strand of hair out of her face, Cuddy tells him, "_Obviously_, I realize what Wilson doesn't – you and I dating? That would never work."

House agrees. "No."

"What are we going to do on a date? You going to take me to your favorite strip club or a monster truck rally?"

"Well, we can't all drink decaffeinated herbal tea and throw dinner parties," he replies snidely.

"Exactly." She's willing to ignore the sneer curling on his lips as well as the judgment in his tones. Nodding to herself, Cuddy admits aloud, "But Wilson is right. Things are… different. And… we should probably deal with that, because clearly ignoring… _this_ isn't working."

His response is to be mercilessly sarcastic. "I _have_ heard sex is a cure for practically anything – especially awkward moments with your employees."

Leaning against House's desk, she rolls her eyes. "Look, Wilson was wrong about the two of us going on a date. But he's not wrong about the rest… And since, for the foreseeable future, we're going to be stuck with one another, we should just… I don't know," she says with a shrug. "Try it out."

"You mean try out my _penis_," he corrects.

Unable to stop it, Cuddy can feel herself blushing. Her cheeks and neck burning red, it is a sudden moment of embarrassment for her; because despite making it this far in her plan, it seems like only now that she realizes how… absurd the whole thing sounds.

Pushing the thought aside, she explains, "If we ever… _were_ a couple, what would we do? We'd screw each other and _with_ each other."

Silence falling over them for a minute, she lets him contemplate her words. Pleased to see him slowly nod his head in agreement, she continues, "So… we do that. We have sex now. See… if we… like it." Her words halted by how _awkward_ the whole thing is, she looks down at the desk in front of her momentarily. Using the distraction of rubber bands molded together to form a patchwork ball on his desk, she quickly works to get her thoughts together. "If we don't," she explains. "Then we know, and we won't do it again, and things can go back to normal."

What is noticeably absent from her explanation, she immediately understands, is the _other_ way this experiment can turn out; what will happen if they_ enjoy_ it goes unanswered, because…

Well, she's pretty sure _that_ will be more of what's already going on between them. And frankly, Cuddy has put too much effort into setting the white board up to turn back now.

"The sex obviously takes care of the screwing each other part," House notes. But then his eyes narrow on her. "But the second part? Is this your big attempt at screwing _with_ me?" That he seems almost disappointed at her efforts thus far eggs her on.

"Of course not," she tells him with a wolfish grin on her face. "That's just the first part."

"And the rest?" he asks cautiously.

Placing a hand on the stacks of files, the ones _not_ ruined by his antics, she tells him, "These are all of the files and letters left to be done before I'm officially no longer your babysitter."

Not taking the bait, House says bored, "That's nice."

"Here's how this is going to work," Cuddy tells him, trying to entice him. "You want to fuck me; I want my paperwork done."

"Like _you_ don't want _me_?" he throws back at her.

"Hmm," she responds vaguely, cocking her head. "Maybe. But… given how long it's been since I last had sex, I would think by now you'd realize that a couple more days isn't _that_ hard for me."

Suddenly, House decides, "This is a trick."

"No, it's –"

"Let me guess. I do all the paperwork and then you get laid," he says knowingly. "Then all of a sudden, you're no longer in the mood. And then I've just taken care of a stack of files for _nothing_. I know how this game works."

"Would you like to hear how the rules of the game or –"

"I want collateral," he interrupts.

"What?" Her mind turns at the demand, at how she is supposed to be the one in control but clearly _isn't_, because House is the one obviously in charge.

And he knows it just as much as she does.

His eyes trained on her, he says, "Before I agree to _anything_, you need to prove that you're actually willing to go through with the sex."

Cuddy hesitates to ask him what he wants. As doubtless as it is that he has something he wants in mind, she doesn't want him to think that he can get whatever he wants (although part of her thinks he already believes that); she'll give him morphine and sex, but she really does _not_ want to give him carte blanche.

Then again, she realizes soon after that making a specific offer to him is just as dangerous. Letting him off clinic duty for a month when he would ask for a week, giving him a blow job when he would rather go down on her – she understands that the chance she'll overplay her hand is too great. Too dangerous, and she is determined to give him as little as possible.

So she asks finally, "What do you want?"

He throws it back at her. "What can I have?"

"_No_, you tell me what you want."

"_No_," he retorts, mimicking her contrary tone. "You tell me –"

"Either make me an offer or game over and you can spend the night locked up here by yourself," she tells him irritably.

Perhaps realizing that Cuddy isn't kidding, House says seriously, "In that case, I want your underwear."

Immediately, she thinks that this is absolutely _not_ what she wants.

This is absolutely _not_ part of her plan. Carefully crafted, her plan was simple in theory: articles of her clothing to be removed for a particular number of files or letters taken care of. Getting him to do his own work while still doing _exactly_ what the board asked her to do _and_ still managing to get laid?

It was the perfect plan.

Until House got involved, she laments sadly.

"No," she tells him harshly.

"Because it doesn't fit in with your striptease plans?" he asks knowingly.

"How did you –"

He rolls his eyes and explains, as though what she was doing were completely obvious to anyone with a brain, "Your clothes. You're wearing _panty hose_."

"It's cold," she explains.

"Not that cold. Not cold enough for hose, and if it were, you'd wear tights. And if it were _that_ cold, you'd be wearing a sweater –"

It's pointless to point it out, but she does anyway, "I'm wearing layers to keep me –"

"That's a hassle, which means –"

"This _conversation_ is a hassle. Wearing something that requires me to hook a few more buttons is not," she tells him.

"Your position would be _slightly_ more believable if you weren't standing in front of my white board with a list of clothing and a number beside it," House says snidely.

And he's got a point there, so much so that Cuddy isn't exactly sure why she's even taking the time to _deny_ that this is her plan. She supposes it's because she wants another chance to outsmart him; the taste of beating him at a diagnosis incredibly addictive, perhaps she really does just want another instance to hold over his head.

Or maybe, and this seems more realistic she thinks, she just doesn't want to admit to being that predictable.

"Fine," she admits, throwing in the towel. "I was hoping that we could… nip whatever this is in the bud _and _take care of all of the paperwork, so that we can both go back to doing what it is that we normally do."

"Or maybe you just want your files neatly stacked and envelopes perfectly licked, and you're just trying to lure me with the promise of nudity," he accuses.

It is then that Cuddy realizes how close she is to losing her opportunity here. His eyes hard and pointedly aimed at her, House looks ready to leave (were he able to, of course), ready to fight her every step of the way. And although she understands now that it was probably… nothing short of idiotic to believe that he would _ever_ simply do what she told him to, in the end, it doesn't matter.

She has to convince him she's serious if she wants to be taken seriously.

"All right, fine," Cuddy tells him, as she awkwardly reaches under her tight skirt and pulls her thong down.

The silky material catching briefly on her garters before slipping easily down her stockings, her underwear is down by her heels when he orders, "Give 'em to me." Stepping out of the black panties, Cuddy looks at him questioningly; surely, she did _not_ just hear him right. So House repeats, his voice stern, "Bring them to _me._"

In the back of her mind, she can almost hear the alarm bells, hear the protests that should be falling off of her lips. But no words escaping her, she finds herself following his instructions.

Her steps are tentative. Slowly moving around the desk, she's standing right in front of him after a few seconds, holding the underwear out to him. And as he grabs them, tosses the thong aside, Cuddy is pretty sure that she hates him and doesn't really want to date him at all.

Because how can she even begin to like someone so… _rude_ and _demanding_ and _annoying_?

And how is he _still_ in control when _he's_ the one tied up?

The question getting lost in the overbearing fog laid across her mind, it's hard to listen to House when he orders her next, "Show me."

Confused, she asks, "What?"

He rolls his eyes in response, making her think that she's misheard him if what he wants is so obvious as to deserve an eye roll. "As much as I'd like to believe you're naked underneath that skirt, Cuddy…"

Eyes widening in realization, her voice whiny, she argues, "But you just saw me –"

"All I know is that someone who takes the time to make neat little charts on white boards to choreograph getting naked is also probably the same kind of person to wear two pairs of underwear as a back up," House argues.

It's almost amazing, Cuddy thinks, how she's known him for all of these years but never considered how _paranoid_ he is and can be. But just as she's about to reconsider this whole proposition entirely, he interrupts her thoughts with an order, "Get on the desk."

Blinking, she starts to ask, "Why do –"

"Get on the desk," he repeats. But this time he adds, "And spread your legs."

She is tempted to argue that this is not the mind fuck she had in mind. She is tempted to say no, to tell him to go to hell, to be offended by everything he has done _all week_ to her.

_But_…

There is something about the way his pupils widen slightly in desire, the way his eyes look at her expectantly, _ravenously, _the way the deep, rich tones of his low voice make her own desire pool in the pit of her belly and moisten her inner thighs that convince her to give into his order.

Backing up until her ass bumps into the lip of his desk, she unceremoniously hoists herself up.

"Show me," he repeats, his eyes intently focusing on the dark panty hose encased curves of her knees.

And Cuddy isn't sure why, but she hesitates then. She thinks she's always been comfortable with House's _obvious_ attraction to her, but then again… somehow he has managed to keep any real feelings out of it by being so obnoxiously obvious about it.

And maybe it's his _lack_ of commenting now that's bothering her; his silence more telling than any words, it would seem, perhaps _that_ is why she feels so… _naked_ in front of him.

But more realistically, she supposes the issue is that they are going to have sex one way or the other, too far in this game, whosever game it is at this point, to quit playing it. The rules messy and blurred, there are way too many places for them to slip up, for them to put… actual affection or, worse, _love_ into it.

However, at this point, Cuddy supposes that's a risk they'll have to take. Because backing out now isn't really an option. Backing out implies cowardice and a willingness to accept defeat or the high road or _something_ that neither particularly wants.

And so stubbornly, she acquiesces (the irony of the sentiment not lost on her). Her knees parting slowly, dramatically, she closes her eyes as the cool air hits her bare thighs. Her labia probably _glistening_ in the unflattering fluorescent lighting, Cuddy tries very, very, _very_ hard not to imagine the smirk sure to be appearing on House's face.

But, of course, even if she can ignore that, she can't _not_ hear House murmur his approval. "Good girl," he tells her, the words making her wetter than _any_ sort of praise should. "I'll tell you what," he adds after a second. His rough fingertips lightly touching one of her stocking-covered knees, she imagines, behind the red inky darkness of her eyelids, that he would touch her higher if not for his current bonds.

"I think you were lying earlier," House accuses gently. His voice low and seductive, he tells her, "After all that time without a man… I think you can't _wait_ for me fuck you. I think you want me to do you right now. I think you want to untie me and let me bend you over the desk right here, right now and _fuck you_."

The way her breathing has become labored is not lost on her. Nor is the way the flush on her body has almost suddenly spread. Her own desire spreading like wild fire, she's tempted, _so very tempted_ to let him do exactly what it is he says he will do.

But Cuddy knows she hasn't gotten _anywhere_ in life without being able to put her desires aside for the greater good. And if only because she does _not_ want him to be convinced he can treat her like _this_ and get away it, she finds the strength to play him.

Opening her eyes slowly, she gives him a small smile and lies, "Okay."

Slinking off of the desk, she easily straddles his thighs. Her ass lowering itself just so it grazes his body, she avoids giving him too much contact. Her goal to make him desperate enough to beg before _she_ has to, Cuddy knows it'll be a very tricky task. But, as she leans down and plants a passionate kiss on his lips, she's up to it.

Her warm hands cup his cheeks in a way she would have described as tender, were she to be with someone else. Given that she's with _House_, however, this is decidedly not tender, not warm, but a trick. His tongue barreling into her mouth, he is as take charge as ever. And she's sure that will work to her advantage.

Their slick lips pressed against one another, Cuddy can't help but gasp into his mouth as one of his untied hands squeezes her breast. A traitorous nipple hardening quickly, easily under his light touch, she's sure that he can feel it, even through her push up bra, camisole, and button down shirt.

His other hand sliding down her back and to her ass, Cuddy can't ignore his heated grip on her. Fingertips tightening possessively in a way that she's sure will bruise, he isn't being gentle. His style "take no prisoners," she is quickly realizing that she has to up her game – unless she wants to come before he even manages to slide a finger into her.

Pulling her lips away from him, Cuddy kisses along his jaw line. Pretending that the stubble scraping her sensitive flesh doesn't bother her at all, she is slow about it, insanely so. The soft gentle kisses incongruent with the slicked desire heating her pussy, only her incessant hand sweeping down the front of his shirt to the fly of his pants show just how desperate she is.

Stroking his dick through the softened material of his jeans, she easily makes him hard. The slight curve of her palm follows the ridges of his erection; her touch just as needy as he's making her feel, she can tell that the game – no, that _they_ are spiraling out of control.

Her lips leaving a wet trail along his neck as she traverses the rough skin back to his mouth, when they kiss, they are needier this time. Kisses, too many coming at her, blur from one to the next; a seemingly never-ending tidal wave of desire, it doesn't even matter when their lips occasionally break away – for air, for a different angle, whatever. It's all one seamless act, lips on lips, his tongue in her mouth, their noses smushed awkwardly between each other.

Cuddy's fingers tangle with the short strands of hair along the back of his head, pulling his closer, trying to gain some leverage over the moment. Or maybe she's just pulling him closer for the sake of drawing him nearer.

Their control slipping so quickly, it's only a matter of who will beg first, and part of her prays that it's him while another… wouldn't be opposed to feeling him inside of her _right now_. House, clearly understanding that that traitorous part inside of her exists (if only because he must, by now, be able to _smell_ it on her), decides she should be the one to give in.

A wily hand slips between her layers of clothing and heads straight for her nipple. And Cuddy wants to murmur the word, "No," not so much over the act but over the way she's surely going to lose control if he manages to get his hands on what he wants. But the moment he captures the tight bud between his index and middle finger, all words even remotely resembling "no" die within in her.

Her body all warm and wonderful sensations, willing to yield and concede to pretty much _anything_ he wants, Cuddy is abruptly aware that she is losing the battle against House.

Like usual.

In the back of her mind, Cuddy realizes she doesn't have many plays left. She's going to _lose_ if she doesn't do something drastic, the feisty part of her realizes.

And losing is _not_ her strong suit.

Her fingers frantically begin to undo his zipper. She concedes that doing this tooth by tooth would be a more effective technique. But unable to realize that until her hand is tugging his hardened cock out in the open, she is more than willing to settle for plan B:

A tortuous hand job.

The curl of her hand too loose for him to even come close to coming, her strokes too light and short, she thinks it will be enough to drive him nuts.

His own hand quickly moving from her ass to his dick covers her knuckles with his palm. And fingers closing around, House is trying to show her exactly he wants.

As though she doesn't know.

Harder, longer strokes – that's clearly what he wants, what he _needs_, but it doesn't matter in her mind. She lets him set the pace, lets him believe that she's gotten the hang of it, before going back to her old rhythm.

Much to his dismay.

A growl and a rough pinch to her nipple that makes her hiss, his voice is at first a warning, "Cuddy."

Her fingers trailing downward to massage his balls, she can't help but smirk against his lips when he repeats her name, this time begging, "Cuddy."

She has him by the balls, she realizes, in _every_ way imaginable.

She's held out longer, she realizes.

Muttering a "please" into her mouth, House has lost.

_Lost_.

Which means Cuddy has _won._

And arrogantly, if with difficulty, she pulls away. Standing up straight, she's leaving him high and dry, that knowledge almost more satisfying that the sex could ever be.

But of course, House is slow to realize what is happening, for perhaps the first time ever. His eyes thinly glazed over with desire, he doesn't say anything until she plucks his hand from her chest. His fingers dragging her nipple with him, it sends a delightful shiver down her spine, sends pleasure through her body only to pool hotly, wetly in her groin.

"Hey!" House finally exclaims, noticing the distance between them then. He practically stutters to say, "What –what is _this_? You _can't_ –"

"You didn't think that this was the end of the game, did you?" Her voice is taunting, as she moves further and further away, putting the desk between them.

He doesn't answer the question. Instead, House orders, "Get back here."

"Do your paperwork, and I will."

"Get over here _now_," he warns. "Or I'll jerk off, and you won't ever be laid."

"Then do that," Cuddy replies, waving off the threat. She sounds much calmer about that possibility than she feels; the idea that he might get off without her, that she might get so close to getting laid, only to have him take matters in his own hand, is terrifying. So she adds a threat of her own. "Get off and sit here all night in your office with come on your pants. And then you can explain to Wilson tomorrow morning, when he finds you here, what exactly happened."

The mental picture _that_ provides is one she is unable to suppress a smile over. Her lips splitting into a predatory grin, she's almost tempted to leave him here like this and for no other reason than it would amuse her.

"Bitch," he says half-heartedly, perhaps too pleased by the way she's outmaneuvered him.

Rolling her eyes, Cuddy responds, "Just do your job, and I'll _eventually_ give you what you want."

"You still gonna take off your clothes?" he asks wearily, pointing at the white board.

"If you want," she replies with a shrug, taking a seat in the chair that's always in front of his desk.

The look he sends her then as he pulls his chair – well, as best as anyone tied up can move a chair – up to the stack of files and letters waiting for him says everything.

_Yeah_, he wants her to give him the striptease.

Which she's happy to do… as long as he plays by _her_ rules.

Cuddy tells him, "And you can't make things up for the files. No fake diagnoses or names." As an afterthought, she adds, "And you can't be rude in your response letters. _And_ you can't just write one generic letter and send that to everyone."

"Well, I can't work like this," he replies quickly, snidely. "If you're going to tie my hands like –"

"_House_," she says through gritted teeth. "The sooner you _shut up_ and _start_, the sooner I'm naked, and the sooner we have sex."

Thank God - he listens to her then, silently turning to the paperwork in front of him and beginning to weed through the files.

He works in silence, as does she. Having come prepared, she's looking over the budget committee's latest projections as he writes in files and types on his computer. It's boring work, the words on the page blending into one another in a never-ending series of numbers and costs and cuts and complaints. She's sure she's approaching the part where they recommend getting rid of the clinic and the diagnostics department when House orders, "Lab coat and shirt. _Now_."

Tiredly, Cuddy looks up. "What?"

"Three patient files completed," he says. Sliding the manila folders her way, he waits until she's looking them over before telling her, "So that's the lab coat. And _ten_ letters diagnosing medical problems that Wilson's _poop_ could diagnose. So give me the shirt."

Of course, she examines each and every file and printed letter carefully. As much as she _really_ wants to be done with this, Cuddy knows that it'll just be extra work if it's done poorly.

But eventually, after he moans, "_Come on_," for maybe the fifth time, she's satisfied by his work.

"All right." Standing up she unceremoniously drops the lab coat and unbuttons her shirt. The silk falling off her shoulders and down her back lazily, it's probably the worst striptease in history.

And House is the first to point that out. As she sits back down to her work, he says, "You need to work on your showmanship."

Placing the completed files to the side, Cuddy quips. "You're _right_… next time I'll unzip my skirt with my teeth if that's what you want."

House smirks immediately. "If you were _that_ flexible, you'd have been married as many times as Wilson has been by now."

They fall back into silence for a bit. And eventually, when she's licking envelopes containing his letters, he says, "The other shirt now."

She looks over his work before saying okay. But just as she stands up, her hands curling around the lacy edges of the camisole, House stops her. "_I_ want to take it off," he tells her.

In a perfect world, she stays on course and tells him no.

… Actually, in a _perfect_ world, she's not spending her Sundays getting naked with her _worst_ employee.

But stuck in this dystopia, Cuddy finds herself moving back around the desk of her own volition. Straddling his legs once more, she closes her eyes and swallows hard when his fingers tuck underneath her top.

He starts to tug, the funny business she was almost expecting nonexistent. Until he tells her, "You're going to need to crouch down, so I can get it past your shoulders." And that request sounds reasonable enough in her head, mental alarm bells remaining silent. So she does what he asks, crouches just a little, so that her shoulders are nearer, her breasts unintentionally level with his mouth.

And that's when he does it.

Hands still doing their job by pulling the thin top over her head, House leans forward and sucks a bra-encased nipple into his mouth. The scant barrier does nothing to protect her from the wetness of his tongue and the sharpness of his teeth. He bites down on the tightened bud, bites _hard_.

The immediate shock of pain quickly melding into waves of syrupy pleasure, Cuddy tries to close her thighs as best as she can. House's body caught between hers, however, she is unable to do so, the orgasm she's so near slipping out of her grasp.

His tongue just beginning to lave over the sensitive bud, she pulls him off with her hands, directing him to her other breast. And she's grateful that he's compliant about the whole thing, once again eagerly sucking the tip of her breast into his mouth.

But unlike before, he's… gentle, tortuously so. Licking and nibbling but never quite giving her exactly what she wants, House is using her own technique against her. And no amount of pressure on the back of his head to push him further onto her breast works. The contact way too soft, it makes her _very_ tempted to give into him when he offers, muttering into her bra, "Stop the game now, and I'll give you _exactly_ what you want."

Tiny remnants of sanity lingering on in her mind, however, Cuddy shakes her head and pulls away.

At this point, she realizes, it's not really about winning.

Well, of course it's about _winning_, but, sex in their immediate future, now it's time to start thinking of damage control. Because it's one thing to imagine screwing him senseless, another to actually do it – do _him_. And while she's almost entirely sure a relationship with him would never work and that she doesn't _really_ want him, Cuddy knows that she has to take all the precautions necessary in case the sex is too good, too… _real_ for either of them to ignore.

Which means getting all of the paperwork done.

Because if they do have feelings for one another, if this doesn't resolve _anything_, then… she needs to make absolutely sure she won't be spending the next week doing his paperwork.

So they return to doing their work, her bra, wet around the nipples still on her body, the temperature cooling between them considerably. House is more irritable than before, occasionally breaking the silence with a comment on how a potential case isn't worth his time.

Sometimes, he snidely remarks that the misdiagnoses in some of the letters are "So obvious, surely even _you_ could have caught it." And part of Cuddy is tempted to retort that, in most of those instances, she _had_ considered what was really wrong with the person. But somehow she thinks House will say her inability to trust her own diagnosing skills is proof that she's no longer a doctor, that she's weak, that she's stupid, a coward, etc.

So she keeps her mouth shut, does her work, only stopping when he demands she take off the heels and stockings and garters.

This time, of course, Cuddy doesn't go anywhere near him, taking the clothes off on her own. It's… safer that way.

Now only in her skirt and bra, she thinks it's a _lot_ harder to focus on the report she's reading. The cool air hitting her bare skin, a chill sweeps through her body – particularly focusing its attention on her wet nipples. But that's nothing compared to the distraction the heat, the _wetness _between her legs is causing. Her clitoris aching for stimulation, her body wanting his penis, it's almost too much for her to bear. And frankly, she probably _would _be jumping him right now, if it weren't for House's sour mood.

If it weren't for his constant need to do whatever the hell he wanted, which is exactly what he's doing right now. Tossing a stack of unanswered letters her way, House tells her, "I'm not doing those."

She looks up at him, brow furrowing in annoyance and confusion. "Excuse me?"

"You're going to do them," he informs her. "Since if you had any _guts_, you'd have kept them off my desk to begin with."

"I'm sitting here in my bra and a skirt," Cuddy reminds him. "My clothes are all over your office. I don't have guts?"

"This is different," he says, leaning forward as best as he can. "Those cases are _obviously_ misdiagnosed. And just as obviously, you _knew_ that – or else you would have already taken care of it. But since you _also_ know that I would _never_ be interested in those cases," he points out. "I'm thinking you knew what was wrong but were too wimpy to take care of it yourself, cause you were_ afraid _to be wrong."

She blushes involuntarily, her voice tightening, as she tries to deny it. "I didn't –"

"Either you did, or you're an idiot. Which kind of moron do you really want to be, Cuddy?" Her silence is answer enough; she's definitely _not_ an idiot. And he knows as much, it would seem, as he tells her again, "I'm not doing those. _You_ are."

Her eyes widening slightly, Cuddy's not entire surely why she feels as though she's been given a gift, been given some insight into his… _feelings_ for her. But somehow she does. Curious, she asks, "Is this your way of saying you trust me enough to diagnose while using your name or –"

He scowls at her attempt to analyze the act and tells her, "Don't bring _feelings_ into this." His voice is laced with disdain. "Just take care of it."

And so she does. Not because she really _wants_ to do the paperwork, not because he's told her to, but because… he's _right_. She shouldn't bring feelings into this; in fact, didn't she plan this whole thing to make sure there _weren't_ any feeling involved?

Shaking her head, Cuddy realizes she's too far gone down the rabbit hole to even know where to start crawling to get out. Her logic so muddled and twisted, it's pointless to even try to begin to reason whether or not she's making the right choice.

So she mentally throws in the towel and starts on the remainder of the letters. Her laptop stowed away in her office, she doesn't have the ability to type and print out response letters. Her only option to write down what she wants to put in the letter and do it later, it's one that Cuddy is okay with.

As long as it means things can go back to normal.

But, almost a half hour after, when they're both finished, and House says, "Bra. _Now_," she is beginning to realize that there's a good chance things will _never_ go back to normal.

Considering that all of the paperwork is done (or at least as done as it can possibly be), she knows that, if they play by the rules, her skirt will stay on.

And yet, the prospect of semen stains and memories of Monica Lewinsky have her quickly undoing the buttons on it; slowly pulling the skirt over the curve of her ass, she toys with House by asking sweetly, "Is my presentation better now?"

His eyes eagerly raking over her neatly groomed pussy and toned legs and belly, his heated gaze is all the answer she needs. All the catalyst she needs to renew the flame burning inside of her. Her body more than ready for him, Cuddy closes the distance between them as quickly as she can.

Too focused on the need to have him fuck her, she lets out a squeak when he smacks her ass hard. The snap seems to ring out in the heated air, and she can feel the burn immediately.

Her eyes, shocked and a little annoyed, she looks to him for an explanation. And as she straddles him once more, House gives her one. "Take off your bra." As an afterthought, he threatens, "Or I'm going to rip it off of you."

In theory, she thinks she would be pissed about his tone. But so far gone from the way things should happen or would happen in a perfect world, she can't help but obey. Her thumb and forefinger quickly undoing the clasp, she tosses the material to the side.

Now standing before him naked, Cuddy is grateful when he pulls her down onto his lap. Not so appreciated is the soft pat he gives her stinging ass. A reminder of his sudden penchant for treating her like a naughty schoolgirl (something that he has, more than likely, jerked off to in the shower), she squirms on top of him.

But the feeling of slight discomfort quickly evaporates. His mouth heading for one of her nipples once more, she sighs, gasps, mews loudly when he pulls the hardened bud between his lips and into his mouth with a loud suck. And as he works her over, Cuddy pleas, "_House._"

She's begging, just as he did so earlier today. The parallelism appropriate, even to her overheated mind, it's almost enough to give her pause, almost enough to make her worry that he'll punish her as she did him.

And yet, the way he's grinding her ass against his lap pretty much guarantees he won't. Of course if that's not enough proof for her, the way he pushes her hand towards his dick, still peeking out of jeans and underwear certainly is. Kissing his way up to her shoulder, he whispers into a dark curl, "You know what to do."

_Yes_, she does, she thinks. Fervently guiding his cock towards her opening, she tries to carefully sink down onto him. Tries to, but doesn't succeed, the need to have him inside of her too much to go slowly.

Not _quite_ regretting it the minute he fills her, she still can't help but gasp loudly, cry out and rest her forehead against his shoulder at the feeling. As cliché as she thinks it probably is, Cuddy can't move, doesn't want to. The sensations she's already feeling too much to add on top of, she tries to focus on the smell of House's shampoo, laundry detergent and sweat together. She tries to focus on the way one of his hands has begun to gingerly run along the vertebrae of her back and not the stinging stretch of his dick filling her.

Surprisingly, House is in no hurry. Or at least that's how it seems. For the first time in perhaps forever, he doesn't feel the need, again it would seem, to make fun of her. There are no acrid quips falling off his tongue, ruining the moment. There are no childish or dirty jokes, no eager hands forcing her to move when she isn't ready. In short, House is absolutely the opposite of the House she has come to know over the years.

And as his stubbly chin lazily rubs along the curve of shoulder back and forth, she can't help but think it's kind of nice. If he were like this more, she definitely would have had sex with him a _lot_ more years ago.

It's something she's tempted to tell him. But doesn't, the chances of it ruining the mood are too great. And besides… it's all borderlining feelings and affection, and that's _not_ what this is supposed to be about.

So she puts her lips to better use. Kissing him as she starts to move, Cuddy tries to go slowly, tries _not_ to think about what any of this means. But that's all easier said than done.

Her hips and his hands having other plans in mind, she quickly builds up to a steady pace. His hands help lifting her up so that she's almost off of him before pulling her hard back on his cock, they work together in a frenzy. Her warm juices ooze onto him, make the short path she's traveling easier and easier to take. Her body eagerly adjusting to his member, Cuddy can't help but groan into his ear.

It's perfect in a way that she never thought possible. His dick big enough to make her feel full but not so much so that she's in pain, the friction is just the right amount, is delicious, making her insatiable.

Her lips hungrily moving towards his, she's disappointed briefly – _very_ briefly – that his head is bent. Sadness flickering across the light canvas of her irises, she wants to demand a kiss.

But the order is quickly enveloped by her moan. His mouth kissing, sucking, biting her breasts, it's the combination of pain and comfort of hard and soft, rough and gentle that moves her infinitely closer to the edge.

Her movements becoming more frenzied, she doesn't think about his thigh or the pain her ass crashing into it over and over is causing – or will cause. She doesn't think about the way her moans and cries are becoming louder and louder, doesn't question whether or not a man like House, who has stopped his heart twice in the last year, should be panting quite as hard as he is.

She doesn't think about any of those things; she doesn't think at all.

Her mind somehow shutting itself off, there is only the feel of wetness coating his cock and surrounding her nipples. There is only the pleasure of one hand possessively wrapped around her waist, the other hand gripping her ass – occasionally delivering the lightest of slaps to egg her on. There is only the way his hair feels sliding through her fingers and the way his jeans are rough against her soft, burning ass.

There is noise, so many noises – the sound of her moaning and his labored breathing, and the combined sounds of her riding him over and over. There is heat between them, sweat building up under her breasts and lazily traveling down her body.

There is the feeling, justified or not, that this is all that matters, that making him happy in this moment is all that matters. She is not worried about people coming in; she's not worried about her feelings for him or his for her. Gunmen and paperwork and reality are so far removed from _this_ that it's almost like floating on a cloud of syrupy sweet pleasure. Climbing upward, floating away from all of the pain in their lives, Cuddy clings to him, her fingers surely bruising his shoulders. Clutching onto him as she rides him hard, she comes explosively. Her internal muscles clamping around his dick, her throat closing on the air, she cries out, tears springing to her eyes and blush radiating along her cheeks and chest like fireworks in the night sky.

Her pleasure all encompassing, all consuming, she pulls House along with her, his own orgasm eliciting a loud groan that's muffled by her breasts in his face.

Their haze quickly dissipating, the cold of the room seeping into their skin and bones, it is on shaky legs that Cuddy stands once more. She unties him, unlocks the large handcuffs holding his feet in place.

Careful not to look at him as she gets dressed, she's too afraid by what she might see in his eyes. Even more afraid that _he_ will see what she is quickly beginning to feel.

Wilson was… _right_.

She _does_ like House, _does_ want him, and the sex has only confirmed now just how good they can work together. Fixing the clasp on her bra, she thinks wryly that, in the very least, having sex _definitely_ confirmed their sexual tension is _much more_ than regular animosity-filled tension – that's for sure.

Only when she's on the last button of her blouse and then reaching for her lab coat does she ask, "Well?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Cuddy can see him wiping the sweat off the back of his neck. "Well what?" he asks, not following the question.

"Did you… feel something?"

"No," he answers simply. A second passing filled with both disappointment and relief for her, Cuddy nearly jumps when he asks, "You?"

"Nope," she tells him calmly.

It's only when she's on the elevator, the stack of completed paperwork in her shaking hands, that she remembers:

They are both very good liars.

_The End_


End file.
